The news is received by wireless from both sides of the ocean. Today’s dispatches from Washington fairly made our hair stand on end. One of them said: “The decision of the milk dealers here that they would not pay more than thirty-two cents per gallon for milk after October one was met by a counterproposal on the part of the Maryland and Virginia Milk Producers’ Association last night with an offer to fix the price at thirty-three and one-half cents per gallon instead of at thirty-five cents as originally planned.” Another informed us that Brigadier-General Somebody, for three years assistant to the Major-General Commandant at the Marine Corps Headquarters, had been ordered to command the Marine Cantonment at Somewhere, Virginia. A person who fails to get a thrill out of that must be a cold fish. But I can’t help wishing they’d let us know when and where the world series is to start.
It is announced that Doc Cook will preach at the ship’s service Sunday morning. His text, no doubt, will be “Twenty Yards from the German Trenches.”
Saturday, September 29. At Sea.
Captain Finch says we will reach New York Tuesday. But if they don’t quit turning the clock back half an hour a day we’ll never get there.
Sunday, September 30. At Sea.
The doctor preached, but disappointed a large congregation with a regular sermon.
After we had sung “God Save the King” and “America,” I came to my stateroom to work and immediately broke the carriage cord on my typewriter. I said one or two of the words I had just heard in church; then borrowed a screw driver from Ring Once and proceeded to dilacerate the machine. It took over an hour to get it all apart and about two hours to decide that I couldn’t begin to put it together again.
I went on deck and told my troubles to Mr. Hollister of Chicago. Mr. Hollister was sympathetic and a lifesaver. He introduced me to a young man, named after the beer that made Fort Wayne famous, who is a master mechanic in the employ of the Duke of Detroit. The young man said he had had no experience with typewriters, but it was one of his greatest delights to tinker. I gave him leave to gratify his perverted taste and, believe it or not, in forty minutes he had the thing running, with a piece of common binding twine pinch-hitting for the cord. Then I went entirely off my head and bought him wine.
Monday, October 1. Nearly There.
It’s midnight. An hour ago we went on deck and saw the prettiest sight in the world—an American lighthouse. First we felt like choking; then like joking. Three of us—Mr. and Mrs. P. Williams and I—became extremely facetious.
“Well,” said Mrs. Williams, “there’s ‘ ’Tis of Thee.’ ”
“Yes,” said her husband, “that certainly is old ‘O Say.’ ”
I’ve forgotten what I said, but it was just as good.
The light—standing, they told me, on Fire Island—winked at us repeatedly, unaware, perhaps, that we were all married. I’ll confess we didn’t mind at all and would have winked back if we could have winked hard enough to carry nineteen nautical miles.
Ring Once was waiting at the stateroom door to tell me to have all baggage packed and outside first thing in the morning.
“I’ll see that it’s taken off the ship,” he said. “You’ll find it under your initial on the dock.”
“What do you mean, under my initial?”
He explained and then noticed that my junk was unlabeled. I’d worried over this a long while. My French Line stickers had not stuck. And how would New Yorkers and Chicagoans know I’d been abroad? I couldn’t stop each one and tell him.
The trusty steward disappeared and soon returned with four beautiful labels, square, with a red border, a white star in the middle, and a dark blue L, meaning me, in the middle of the star.
“Put those on so they’ll stay,” I instructed him. “There’s no sense in crossing the ocean and then keeping it a secret.”
Tuesday, October 2. A Regular Hotel.
M. de M. Hanson, looking as if he’d had just as much sleep as I, was in his, or somebody else’s deck chair, reading a yesterday’s New York paper, when I emerged to greet the dawn.
“I don’t know where this came from,” he said, “but it’s got what you want to know. The series opens in Chicago next Saturday. They play there Saturday and Sunday, jump back to New York Monday and play here Tuesday and Wednesday.”
“And,” said I, “may the better team win—in four games.”
We were anchored in the harbor, waiting for a pilot, that was, as usual, late. I was impatient but M. de M. didn’t seem to care. He’s wild about ocean travel so long as it’s stationary.
Presently the youngest of the food commissioners, one Mr. Bowron, joined us. He asked the name of every piece of land in sight. We answered all his questions, perhaps correctly.
“That one,” said M. de M., pointing, “is Staten Island. Of course you’ve heard of it.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Mr. Bowron.
“What!” cried Mr. Hanson. “Never heard of Staten Island!”
“The home of Matty McIntyre,” I put in. “One of the greatest outside lefts in the history of soccer. He played with the Detroit and Chicago elevens in the American League.”
Mr. Bowron looked apologetic.
“And in that direction,” said Mr. Hanson, pointing again, “is Coney Island, where fashionable New York spends its summers.”
“Except,” said I, “the aristocratic old families who can’t be weaned away from Palisades Park.”
Mr. Bowron interviewed us on the subject of hotels.
“There are only two or three first-class
